


99 Problems (Shopping at the Asshole Store)

by Dagger_Stiletto



Series: Song-Inspired Oneshots [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assault, Attempted Murder, BAMF Erica Reyes, Crazy exes, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Drowning, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gaslighting, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Marshmallow Derek Hale, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Stalking, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Stiletto/pseuds/Dagger_Stiletto
Summary: After a long line of bad luck and traumatic relationships, Erica steps up to the plate and convinces Stiles to meet her new friend on a date. Understandably, Stiles is hesitant, but Erica won't take no for an answer.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Stiles Stilinski/Original Female Character(s), Stiles Stilinski/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Song-Inspired Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917034
Comments: 6
Kudos: 321





	99 Problems (Shopping at the Asshole Store)

**Author's Note:**

> This one kind of hurt to write, and it hurt my poor friend to beta-read. I promise it definitely ends happy! Fluff to soothe the soul! Remember to leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it!
> 
> This work was beta-read by my lovely friend dvoiddubs! Check them out on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DubTheVoid?s=07) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChDuMJQ0jDuSzqKfoJLUNBg) for their amazing voice-acting and dubs! Support my friend-bean!

_Stiles really did know how to pick the_ one asshole out of the crowd that would treat him the worst. He had a _type_ , and unfortunately, that type often came with poor personality traits. He can't help that people that look and usually _are_ out of his league turn him on, and it's always his downfall. He can't remember a time that his relationships actually worked out well.

And apparently even when he steps out of that pretty boy/girl category, he gets his heart dragged through the mud.

Gender never seems to matter either. Man, woman, nonbinary, anything! They'll all ride him hard and put him away wet.

Out of all his relationships, he could firmly say that the only one he isn't completely resentful or heartbroken over, even though it did end sooner than he'd liked, is the one he had with Isaac Lahey. They had been good together, but Isaac came to him six months in and admitted that he loved Stiles, but not the way he should. He had actually fallen for Stiles' best friend Scott and his girlfriend Allison. Stiles couldn't begrudge the curly-haired blond that, even though it stung that he came second best to his brother-from-another-mother once again. The disappointment and sorrow faded over time when he saw how happy the three of them were together.

Isaac was his third relationship. Everything preceding and following were what systematically broke him down.

Lydia was the first, as she always had been destined to be. She had deigned to date him, “giving him a chance” when Jackson had been otherwise occupied during one of their off-times. First love, first heartbreak, the first in a long line of bad relationships. He was a good distraction for her, and she had tried to mold him how she wanted him. He didn't conform, despite how he still tried to make her happy, and then she dropped him when she found someone more entertaining.

Then there was Malia, who never took no for an answer. She took what she wanted, even when he ended bruised and more sore than satisfied—and not just in sex. She liked to scratch and pull his hair, especially when he tried to do more than just thrust or allow himself to be pinned to the bed, and although he liked a good bit of manhandling, there was a line that left him more hurt than anything. She trampled all over that line. He left her when he realized it was escalating rather than getting better, leaving him scarred on his back from the brutality of her claws in the throes of passion.

He knew going in that being with Jackson was a bad idea, but not for the reasons he thought. He expected to be used or to be bullied into a relationship like a male version of his and Lydia's. Instead, Jackson tried to control his every movement, his ever breath, because he couldn't bear the thought that he might find someone else, that he had friendships outside Jackson and his family. Stiles supposed he could blame that on Lydia, too, since she had a chronic habit of moving on when someone had lost their entertainment value. When he broke up with Jackson, he actually felt bad about it despite the circumstances, which is when Noah Stilinski taught his son about the term gaslighting.

He dated Matt Daehler for all of a month before things went south. He followed Stiles everywhere, showing up at the restaurant Stiles waited tables at, creeping out his coworkers and even bothering some of the customers. Then he started loitering in the hallways outside Stiles university classes. He broke into Stiles' dorm and destroyed his roommates side, at which point they had to involve campus security.

They thought that would be the end of it, what with him being banned from campus grounds and Stiles breaking up with him officially, but they were so wrong.

Matt followed him home to Beacon Hills, crashed Scott's birthday pool party, and started a fight with Scott because he'd hugged Stiles, like the brothers-in-all-but-blood were wont to do. When Stiles had stepped in to defend his asthmatic best friend, Matt whirled on him, punched him hard enough to split the skin above his eyebrow, knocked him into the pool, and then followed Stiles in to hold him down and tried to _drown_ him. It was terrifying, blinded by pain and unable to fight off the brutal hands around his neck and on his chest, holding him underwater while he flailed desperately. The chlorinated water burned like lava as he helplessly breathed it in, suffocating his lungs and snuffing out his consciousness.

Luckily Scott's friend Vernon Boyd leapt in after them and wrestled Matt off of Stiles and out of the pool. His girlfriend Erica called 911 while Scott dragged Stiles out of the pool and performed CPR. Matt found Boyd and another of Scott's friends, Liam, until the Sheriff and Deputy Jordan Parrish showed up to make an arrest. Stiles was diagnosed with a concussion and developed pneumonia a day or two after the near-drowning. A restraining order was put in effect, and Matt was sent to a mental institute for evaluation and treatment for his apparently psychotic behavior. The cut above Stiles eyebrow scarred.

Stiles didn't date for a while after that, and when he finally agreed to go out, it was with someone completely outside of his usual purview. A little chubby, a little shy, but Chuck liked a lot of the media Stiles was interested in, and he could rant with Stiles for hours over whatever struck their fancy. He was sympathetic when Stiles told him about his past boyfriends and girlfriends, comforting, but Chuck hoarded the information to use against him later. The longer the relationship went, however, the more he realized how prone to laziness he was, and how he was basically just mooching off his overindulgent mother with no ambition and no indication that he wanted to more than play video games, eat his mother's food, and live in her basement like so much mold. Stiles _always_ paid for their dates, and if Stiles displayed any sort of displeasure with what was happening in the relationship, Chuck reminded him how apparently Stiles couldn't do better, how he wasn't good enough for better, and he needed to get off his high horse and join the rest of them on Earth. For a while, Stiles believed him and dealt with it, but he could only go so long with someone dredging up his insecurities like they were a tool.

Of course, the he went straight to someone else that was pretty similar a few months later.

Towards the end of his second year in college, he dated a guy named Chet that had that classic bad boy look—leather and ripped jeans, chains on his pockets and belt loops, tattoos, boots, a few piercings, and the smell of cigarette smoke. At first he thought it was all a front because Chet surely knew how to sweet talk him with sugary kisses, candy, and compliments about his looks and his not-awful-but-not-star-material singing voice. He liked to show Stiles off to his friends, and he often bragged about how well Stiles was doing in university.

But Chet also liked sex, a lot, liked to bite Stiles during sex despite how he complained that it hurt, and he often got plain mean when Stiles wasn't in the mood. He had a short temper, especially when Stiles talked too much, and it resulted in one of three things: derogatory remarks about Stiles' inability to shut or his personality at large; a demand for a sexual favor of some sort, usually a blowjob if Stiles' loquaciousness was the cause of his foul mood; or he threw things in fits of rage. He was the reason Stiles almost got evicted from his apartment, what with the noise complaints and the frequent damage to the walls from flying furniture and thrown punches, and he made sure Stiles knew just how useless he was when he broke up with Chet.

TeeTee was a nonbinary aspiring rock star, and they were a lot of fun, made Stiles feel strong and invincible and part of something. They knew how to party hard, made sure Stiles had fun without getting hurt, got him front seats or backstage passes to whatever gigs the band managed to schedule. It was embarrassing how long it took for Stiles, the son of a long-time law enforcement officer, to catch on to their addiction to cocaine. The two of them had a pretty bad argument over, and then TeeTee had flown off the handle, getting violent, and hauled off and hit him. Even with those feminine hands, they managed to leave behind a pretty bad shiner.

They apologized, and the two made up a week later. TeeTee said they'd go to rehab, and Stiles promised his undying support. It was a lie. Stiles found out “rehab” was actually them hoarding themselves away in their Auntie Marge's basement for a month in an improvised coke-den. Stiles threatened to break up over the lie and continued abuse of drugs they had promised to quit. He caught the fist aimed at him, having expected it and allowed his training as the Sheriff's son to kick in. Of course, he didn't expect TeeTee's drug dealer to crack him across the back of the head with one of Aunt Marge's decorative collectible plates.

Auntie Marge called the police and an ambulance. The plate left a scar in his scalp for him to remember them by.

The next girl he was involved with was a brief fling, not really anything more than a couple romps in bed, but she still stole five hundred dollars and a credit card out of his wallet while he slept. Thankfully he was able to cancel the card before she could completely destroy his account.

Noah complained that he was going to be completely gray before he hit the age of fifty.

Stiles didn't meet his next boyfriend until after he graduated university, started a job as an on-site technician for one of the best banks in Beacon County, and had been living in his post-college apartment for four months. Tod had him wrapped around him so quick and tight that Stiles thought that he'd finally gotten a good one. Stiles was 24, Tod was 28 and already climbing the ranks in the law firm at which he was employed. He bought Stiles gifts—little trinkets or the occasional food delivery to his workplace—just because, no ulterior motives. He told Stiles almost every day a new thing he liked about him. It made Stiles feel cherished and appreciated unlike any other time. Tod's friends seemed to genuinely like him, too, which was refreshing.

He was kind, considerate, and he never told Stiles to shut up because he talked too much. He defended him when someone made a snide remark, whether in fun or not. He seemed genuinely interested in what Stiles had to say, even if he didn't like video games or comic books or nature documentaries. And the sex was some of the best he'd ever had, afterglow cuddles included!

Everyone agreed Tod was a good guy. Even his dad liked him, said he could rest easy with a guy like him around to take care of Stiles, and Stiles relaxed more because for once he got his dad's stamp of approval.

Eight months in, Tod asked Stiles to move in, and Stiles gladly accepted.

Six months after that, however, Tod began to grow distant, miss dates, and leave texts on Read. Stiles asked if he'd done something wrong or if Tod was upset over something, and Tod laughed and told him his paranoia was showing. But it kept happening, and Tod came home later and later, claiming that his current case was stressful and required more attention and work hours than most of his others. When Stiles decided to surprise him with lunch one day, Tod got inexplicably irate and told him not to show up unannounced again, that he couldn't afford distractions, and Stiles left nearly in tears, not sure what he'd done to deserve the public humiliation.

Since when had Stiles become a _distraction_?

A few nights later, Tod apologized and took him on a special date, groveling with sweet words and excuses, and they had spectacular make-up sex when they got home. Things seemed to go back to normal, and Stiles decided he'd just let himself get worked up because of his horrendous past relationships.

Three weeks after their make-up, Stiles came home early from work to find Tod in bed with a woman.

In that moment, Stiles thought that he would have rather felt the blow to the back of his skull again, or the feeling of Matt holding him underwater. The lance of pain that shot through his chest at the sight of the man he'd loved for over a year fucking someone else _in their bed_ was an incomprehensible moment of agony. The utter betrayal and callousness in regards to their relationship and his feelings felt like Tod had thrust a blade between his ribs and spit on the wound for good measure.

He remembers marching over, grabbing the mattress, and flipping it while the two were still moaning and fucking. Tod had shouted angrily while the woman screamed in frightened surprise, and then all the color washed out of Tod's stupidly handsome, tanned face when he sprang up from the floor and saw Stiles there on the other side of the empty bed frame, no doubt looking as gutted as he felt. And then he opened kiss-swollen lips and said the stupidest thing Stiles thought he'd ever heard come from him.

“Stiles, baby, it's not what it looks like.”

“Really? Really, Tod? I may not be a lawyer, but I'm not fucking stupid! I _know_ what fucking looks like, and I know what fucking sounds like. I've had my fair share. What would you call what you were doing if it wasn't _fucking?_ ” He waited all of two seconds, in which Tod gaped at him like a fish. “That's what I thought. Although I guess I really am fucking stupid, because I actually believed you were different than everyone else.”

While Tod scrambled and tried to make excuses, Stiles started packing his things, mainly a few sets of clothes so he could get the fuck out of there as fast as he could. He threw the dress and shoes he found on the floor at the naked woman still hiding partially under the mattress, shouting at her to get out, and she dressed and ran as fast as she could.

Stiles demanded to know how many other people Tod had seen since they were together, shoving his toiletries in his dufflebag, and the sheepish 29-year-old admitted to one other than Helen, the woman who'd fled. So on top of everything, now Stiles needed to go get tested just in case this asshole game him something from the people with whom he'd cheated on Stiles.

He moved in with his dad again temporarily despite the longer commute to his workplace. Scott, Boyd, and Isaac were the best of bros and went to Tod's place to retrieve the rest of Stiles' stuff so he wouldn't have to. He was surprised when some of Tod's friends made it a point to offer their condolences and still try to be friends with _him_. Those two friends, plus his dad and his own lifelong friends, gathered around and closed ranks, helping him nurse his broken heart. After two months, Stiles found an apartment and moved back out of his dad's place, and again Stiles three life-long buddies helped him stuff.

During the move, when he was putting things away, he found a lot of the gifts Tod had gotten him. He didn't want the reminders. Honestly, he only intended on keeping the dress shoes and the Smart Watch already synced to his phone, but when he contacted Tod to give them back, Tod insisted he keep them because they were _gifts._ So Stiles donated the majority of the clothes and took the jewelry and trinkets to a pawn shop. He set the money aside in a savings account, sure he may need it some day.

Six months down the road, and he's still single, afraid to even try anymore. He's not sure what else he could possibly go through. He's been used, abused, cheated on, ignored, manipulated, stolen from, stalked, and nearly died. He wears the scars on his heart, and some on his skin. He buries his insecurities under a smile, hides his burgeoning loneliness behind his laugh and sarcasm. If he occupies himself with work, his friends, his dad, and volunteering at the local animal shelter, he can pretend that he's happy living alone.

He fosters newborn kittens that are brought in after the mother was hit by a car and died, and for a while his time is completely taken up with the five fluffballs. He keeps two, a black female he names Jinx and a gray male he names Loki. The other three find loving homes.

“Cats are not a substitute for a significant other, Stiles,” Erica declares with a hefty dose of judgment in her tone.

“On the contrary, I think all the crazy cat ladies are on to something,” Stiles retorts, swirling the drink she'd just poured for him in its glass before sipping at it. “Fifty thousand of them can't all be wrong.”

“You're not a lady, Stiles.”

“Don't assume my gender.”

“You're ridiculous. Do you really want to be a hermit the rest of your life? You're not even in your thirties yet, and you're giving up on life!”

“Just because I'm happily single does _not_ mean I've given up on life, Erica, stop being dramatic. _I'm_ the one that's supposed to be dramatic.”

“But you're not happy,” Erica retorts mulishly. “Don't deny it. We all see it. You're burying yourself under all of these responsibilities, half of which no one expects of you, and running yourself into the ground. It's not sustainable. You need someone to bring that spark back into your eyes before you start beating the Sheriff in his impression of an old man.”

“Erica, I understand your concern, but I am _fine_.”

“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?”

“Fabulous, independent, nimble-witted, and empowered, _excuse you_.”

“That'd doesn't sound like you at all. What the hell is _nimble-witted_? Forget it, that's not my point. My point is that you need to put yourself back on the market.”

“I'm not for sale, Erica. And quite honestly, I've had enough shopping at the Asshole Store. That's what it's been like for me. Just one after another.” Stiles leans back in his seat, downing the rest of his drink. He briefly considers making his escape when she has to turn her attention to other patrons at the other side of the bar, but the ramifications wouldn't make it worth his while once she eventually caught up to him.

“Come on, Batman, what could it hurt to try?” Erica asks when she comes back, and he gives her a deadpan look.

“I'm literal representation on 'what it could hurt,' Erica. You know what will happen. I have the _worst_ taste in significant others, and you know it.”

“So what if someone else does the choosing for you?”

He stares at her for a second. He honestly did not see that coming. The blonde always has been good at throwing him for a loop, though. “What?”

“What if I picked someone out for you? Maybe that's what you need to break whatever curse was placed on you for kicking puppies in a past life,” she says with a shrug.

“Why would I be cursed to forever be abused or alone for kicking puppies in a past life? Shouldn't the equivalent exchange be my being cursed to get bitten by every dog I ever came in contact with?”

“You're focusing on the wrong thing here, Stiles, and I feel like you're doing it on purpose. Let's get back on track please.”

“I think I liked my particular train of thought better. It's far more interesting than my friend nagging me about my lack of love life.”

Erica smacks him with the towel she had been using to wipe down the bar seconds before so she looked like she was working, and he squawks indignantly, swatting back defensively as he scowls back at her.

“Why are you so invested in this anyway?” he grumbles, passing his glass back and forth between his hands on the waxed but scarred surface of the bar, leg bouncing where he has his foot hooked on the bottom rung of his stool.

“Because for some reason I want you to be happy, Stiles, and you clearly aren't,” Erica says imploringly. “At least not as happy as you _could_ be. Complacency can only get you so far. I know you've been hurt. I _know_ you've had the _worst_ time just trying to find someone to be your Boyd or your Allison-and-Isaac. And maybe what you need is someone chosen for you by someone who genuinely loves and cares for you, because we know what we want for you and won't settle for anything less than what you deserve.”

Stiles stares at her, taking in her earnest, imploring expression, a look that is surprisingly effective. She must have been taking lessons from Scott; they are annoyingly good, just a notch under Scott's powerful puppy-dog eyes. But he's scared, terrified shitless, of opening himself up again when he's finally gotten to a place where he feels like he can breathe, only to be let down for the umpteenth time. He doesn't think he could go through another Tod or another Matt, or even another Isaac. He's so fragile now. He feels like the most delicate of glasses, the thinnest of paper, and the slightest touch could shatter or completely shred him despite how he's tried to layer himself with sarcasm and bitterness for his own protection.

Eventually, he sighs with a heaviness coming from deep in his gut. Elbows propped on the bar, he drops his face into his hands and rubs them roughly up and down a few times. They flop down to the bar with quiet slaps, and he makes eye contact with her, feeling defeated.

“I assume you already have someone in mind?”

Erica squeals gleefully and scrambles around to his side of the bar, earning herself some reproachful looks. Luckily there are two other bartenders to take care of the patrons while she fucks about. She sticks herself to his side, pulling out her phone to retrieve a photo of a smoking hot, _hot like fucking burning_ , man in jeans, a dark colored Henley, and a leather jacket holding a puppy with a scowl on his face. “His name is Derek Hale,” she gushes, “and he is a literal puppy. He looks like a badass, sounds like a badass, sort of acts like a badass, but he is a marshmallow, I swear. Resting bitch face with a heart of gold and a love for nature, puppies, motorcycles, and cuddles.”

“Uh-huh. And you know him how?” Stiles forces himself to look away from the picture on Erica's phone, trying to convince his heart to calm its shit. He is such a _sucker_ for good-looking men that actually look like they'd stomp all over him, especially with guns like Derek's. That man looks like he could bench press two of Stiles. Those thighs could put tree trunks to shame, and the way his jeans hug them just right makes his mouth water. “He looks like the entire Asshole Store, Erica. Like an axe-murderer. We have not added literal murder to my list, good thinking, Erica.”

She slaps his arm sharply, frowning at him. “Stop being a dick, Stiles. I know him because Boyd and I came across this baby deer whose mama got hit on the side of the road, and when we brought it to that new animal sanctuary in the Preserve, he was working there. His family owns several sanctuaries, in fact. He moved away from New York to escape a bad relationship and his crazy ex. Have your dad run a background check if you have to, Derek is _not_ an axe-murderer.”

“Or he hasn't been caught yet.” He dodges her next swat. “Stop that! I'm making valid points here. All right, all right! No bruising of the Stiles, Jesus.” He grabs her phone to get a better look, trying to pick out the qualities she's trying to drill into his brain even though there's not a whole lot to be told from a photo. “So does he know I exist?” he asks after a few contemplative minutes, slouching on his bar stool and passing the phone back.

He knows he's going to give in to her wheedling, if for no other reason than to get her to shut up. He just hopes she knows what she's doing.

“I've talked about you to and around him,” Erica nods. “Boyd and I go back to visit the fawn because we got super attached—” here she swipes to a new picture of the tiny little deer, soft and innocent as it feeds from a bottle Derek is holding for it— “and we like Derek. He doesn't say a whole lot at first, but you can be sure to get him to talk if you bring up animals. He really is a good guy once you get past that rough exterior and the murder-brows. He's been hurt just as bad as you...just not as often or for as long.”

“Doesn't make it less painful,” he murmurs, rubbing his mouth.

“No. But he'll understand. And he thinks you're cute.” She smiles softly, showing him the picture she had of him that she apparently showed this Derek.

It's the one of when he first brought the kittens home to foster, and he'd invited his friends to come see. He was sitting on the floor with a blanket puddled in the circle of his legs, kittens sprawled across it, and he was dressed in ratty jeans, dirty Converse, a Marvel graphic T-shirt and a plaid over-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, thick black-framed glasses he sometimes wore hanging by one arm from between his lips. He was looking up at the camera, the light catching in his eyes so they looked like warm amber, like whiskey. Even Stiles, who doesn't think much of his own appearance, knows that this is a flattering photo of himself.

“He'll think that until I open my mouth,” Stiles predicts. Guys that look like Derek always found him annoying. He could hear Chet's voice in his mind: _Put that pretty mouth to better use, Stilinski, or just shut the fuck up._

“I'll try him out,” Stiles finally sighs, dragging his hand through his hair. He could already feel the anxiety eating at his insides. This could go so badly. It has before, and he can't help but think this will be no different. “But as soon as I catch a whiff of something wrong, I'm bailing, and you're getting me another cat.”

“Trust me, Batman, this one is a _good_ one,” Erica says, hugging him tightly. She presses a red lipstick kiss to his temple. “I promise, you'll be thanking me for introducing you two.”

Stiles doesn't have the heart to tell her how much he doubts that statement.

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

_Stiles seriously thinks he's going to be sick._ That, or he's about to have a full-blown panic attack. Maybe both. Probably both. Why did he agree to this? He's in the woods outside the main office for the California Hale Animal Sanctuary, waiting to meet a man that both turns him on and absolutely terrifies him so they can go on a date. And the date? Hiking. Through the woods. Alone with the guy he's never met in an area he's unfamiliar with.

He should have insisted on the buddy system. At the very least they could have distracted him from the living, breathing thing gnawing at his insides as he waits. With the buddy system, one of them has a better chance at escaping if Derek _is_ an axe-murderer. Or running for help if an accident happens in _the woods._

The only consolation he has is that yes, his dad did some background checks on the Hale family, and they seem to be upstanding people. They have two other animal sanctuaries, one in Colorado and one in New York. Aside from speeding tickets, parking tickets, and one of the youngest driving without a license at the age of 14, their records seem squeaky clean. It either means they're very good at covering up their crimes, or they actually are pretty upstanding citizens.

Stiles perches in the trunk of his Jeep that has faithfully gotten him through everything in his shitty life despite being older than him by a _lot_. He has a backpack with a few supplies—first aid, bug spray, sunscreen, biodegradable toilet paper, a couple flashlights with replacement batteries, a 20,000 mah power bank to extend phone battery life, some bottles of water, and a few protein bars—because who knew what could happen during a hike. He doesn't know how long they'll be hiking or where the end destination is, and he'd rather be prepared. At least he didn't have to dress up. He's dressed in comfortable jeans, sturdy sneakers, a plain black T-shirt, and his favorite red hoodie that has only a _little_ cat hair still clinging to it.

He has resorted to gnawing on his thumbnail, eyes trained on his knees. God, this is nerve-wracking. Why did he agree to this?

“Sorry I'm late,” a new, deep voice says suddenly, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts so hard he flinches. Stiles blinks up at the chiseled bad boy god who looked _even better_ in person than in his pictures, which just isn't fair. His beard looks soft, and he wants to run his hands through it. His eyes are a gorgeous kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and some flecks of brown, and he looks delicious in that leather jacket and painted-on but well-worn jeans. Derek scowls a little, and Stiles resists the urge to tremble because even the murder-face is gorgeous. “Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you either.”

“Oh, um, don't worry about it. Easily excitable, ready to physically flail myself into injury at a moment's notice.” Stiles hops out of the Jeep and rubs his hands up and down on his jean-clad thighs before offering the one he hadn't been chewing on. “I'm Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

Derek's hand is warmer than most, strong and sure with callouses from hard work. Derek doesn't smile, but he replies, “Derek. I'm glad you came. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, just a sec.” He pulls back and grabs his backpack, shuts the trunk and locks up the Jeep, pocketing his keys. Derek's eyes, shifting colors with the light, catch on the backpack, and his lips quirk in amusement the slightest bit. “I don't go on hikes very often, I'm a delicate flower, and I like to be prepared,” Stiles defends, shrugging into the bag's straps. “Lead the way.”

Derek looks like he wants to say something. He doesn't, turning to head across the gravel lot outside the Sanctuary building to the beginning of a worn walking trail. Stiles follows, a step behind and to the right of Derek so he can participate in conversation and observe the man's expression.

Not that Derek is inclined to talk, apparently. Stiles is a little off-put with the silence, and he feels a little nervous, anxious that if he starts talking, he'll disturb the quiet of nature around them or incite Derek's rage. Not that he knows if Derek has a temper or not. He just doesn't want to tempt fate, is all. He clearly has the strength to snap Stiles like a twig if he feels so inclined.

His hands clench around the straps of his backpack near his shoulders.

“You're quiet,” Derek says after a while, head turned back to look at Stiles.

Stiles tries not to get distracted by his stupidly attractive everything. “Sorry.” Not like Derek is being Mr. Talkative himself. “What did you want to talk about?”

“It's just that Erica warned me you never stop talking, but you haven't really said a whole lot,” Derek continues, sidestepping a small branch on the trail.

Stiles steps over it and only trips a little. “I'm not sure what to say, and I'm a little afraid to start up a rant in case it pisses you off,” Stiles replies, deciding on the honest route. The hike hasn't gone on long enough that Stiles can't find his way back if he has to remove himself from the date.

“I don't talk a whole lot.”

_Shocker._

“But I can listen.” Here, Derek actually looks a little shy. The tips of his ears even turn a little red. “I'm just not good with words.”

“Are you sure you wanna do that?” Stiles asks, taking a half-step quicker so he's walking a little more abreast of the leather-clad Adonis beside him, although still a little behind. “Once you ope the floodgates, it's hard to tell how long it'll take and how hard you have to work to get them closed again.”

Derek quirks the smallest of smiles, and Stiles can't help but want to bring more of them out to the surface, to see what it takes to get a full smile or a laugh out of him. “Do your worst,” he challenges.

So Stiles talks.

He talks about anything and everything. About their surroundings, about how his dad was Sheriff for almost two decades _for a reason_ and would definitely frown upon the murdering of the Stiles—if for no other reason than the hassle and the time off he would have to take off for funeral proceedings because Claudia would haunt Noah forever if he didn't give their son a proper burial—about his job and friends and adventures in high school and university—without the godawful crazy exes stories. Some of the things he chatters about are politics, or about the dozens of different genres in books and moves he prefers. Some things he says as an experiment to see if Derek is listening, and he's always pleasantly surprised—and a little flabbergasted—time and time again that Derek doesn't miss a single thing he said.

Derek doesn't really talk back. He nods, grunts, shrugs. Occasionally he'll ask for an explanation, but he seems otherwise content to just listen. He keeps an eye on Stiles and uses surprisingly good reflexes to keep the graceless human from faceplanting, spraining an ankle in a pothole, or braining himself on a tree.

The trail gets fainter and rougher in terrain the further they go. Stiles asks they stop for a water break about an hour and a half in, and he leans against a tree with the backpack on the ground at his feet while he sends reassuring texts to his dad, Erica, and Scott. He sneaks a picture of Derek drinking from a bottle of water, exposed skin dappled with sweat. Putting his phone back in his jeans pocket, Stiles is a little surprised to see Derek staring intensely at him. It feels a little like the other man is attempting to devour him with those pretty eyes. Stiles shuffles awkwardly and ducks his head, bending to pick up the backpack while something hot and tentative squirms in his abdomen.

It's been a long time since he's had butterflies.

They resume their hike, and although he continues to ramble, he falls back a little to let Derek lead the way and also to disguise the fact that he's ogling his date. Derek's muscles are fluid as he moves, and the flex of his ass and thighs is almost hypnotic. It makes his mouth water, makes him want to climb Derek like a tree. The breadth of his shoulders, the bulge of biceps visible even through the leather of his jacket, the taper of his waist to narrow hips. Derek's everything is hitting all of Stiles buttons.

At the end of the second hour of their hike, Derek climbs over a felled tree blocking their path. He turns around, and when Stiles has managed to clamber on top of the log, he reached up and grasps the smaller male's waist with those large, capable hands, more or less picking him up to drop him to his feet on the other side. Stiles' heart flutters quickly, face bright red, hands that had dropped to grasp Derek's arms for stability flexing a little, reluctant to release him.

Twenty steps from the tree, they break into a clearing, at the center of which is a crystal clear lake. It's a gorgeous spot, calm and serene, quiet with only the rustling leaves from the wind and birdsong. Dragonflies dip at the water, teasing the occasional fish that breaches to try to catch a meal. The sun catches on one half of the clearing.

Three boulders are positioned at one side of the lake, and Derek gently guides Stiles to them. Stiles drops his bag to sit on the ground, kicks off his shoes and socks, and accepts Derek's hand to help safely climb onto one of the boulders without falling into the lakes. He strips off his hoodie and shifts it under his butt to cushion it a little and dips his toes in the cool lake water.

“This is a nice spot,” he says after a quiet moment.

“It's my favorite place to go if I just heed somewhere to be away from people,” Derek admits, appearing calm and happy even without evidence of a smile. Stiles feels a little mesmerized at the sight of it, and Derek glances over and ducks his head, ears going red again.

“You really are a marshmallow,” Stiles says in awe.

Derek groans, rubbing his face. _“Erica.”_

The younger man laughs and leans back on his hands. “Yeah, but it's kind of obvious if you know what to look for. I learned the hard way what to look for.” Silence falls on them both for a moment.

“Maybe one day you'll tell me about it?” Derek suggests quietly.

“Maybe.” _Probably._

They spend the rest of the afternoon in each other's company, at ease and without the awkwardness from hours ago. Stiles drags some actual paragraphs out of Derek, about his family and his work, and he delights in the glee on the man's face when he talks about the wolf family he recently took in. He explains wolves aren't indigenous to California, but these ones had been illegal pets to an abusive couple who were cross-breeding them with Kugshas, Huskies, and German Shepherds in a puppy mill. He currently has an adult male, two adult females, and four five-week-old cubs, and he shamelessly shows Stiles pictures, along with ones of the fawn Boyd and Erica brought in, and a disabled cougar missing half of its left hind leg.

Eventually, they have to head back down the trail, but before they leave, Stiles takes a photo of the clearing and its gorgeous lake in the haze of afternoon beginning to give way to evening. They walk side by side, arms brushing as they go and Derek again making sure to catch Stiles whenever he stumbles.

“Like Bambi,” he teases, and Stiles sticks out his tongue.

By the time they make it back to the sanctuary's parking lot, they're holding hands and smiling. When Stiles unlocks the Jeep, Derek opens the door and watches Stiles drop the backpack behind the seat before climbing in. Stiles starts the Jeep and rolls down the window to air out the vehicle, and Derek closes the door, leaning in against it.

For a moment they're quiet, just sort of staring at each other. “Hiking is not usually my idea of a date, first or otherwise,” he admits. “But I had a really good time once we got past the just-met-you jitters.” He smiles, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “I'd like to do a second date.”

Derek smiles, and it's honestly one of the most awesome things Stiles has ever seen. It lights up his face, pretty hazel eyes soft and sparkling, and there's a hint of bunny teeth peeking through. Unable to resist, Stiles darts forward and kisses one of Derek's dimples. Both of them are bright red when he pulls back, and Stiles bites his lip, watching through his eyelashes, lids lowered halfway.

“Phone?”

“Huh?” Whiskey brown eyes blink in confusion.

“Your phone. I mean. Your phone number. Can I have it?” Derek asks stiltedly, proving he really is awful with his words, but he's so earnest, it makes up for it.

“Oh! Oh, yeah.” He scrambles for his phone in his pocket, and almost dropping it out the window when he tries to pass it to Derek. He accepts Derek's and creates a new contact with his information, resisting the urge to put hearts and a kissy face emojis next to his name.

“Do you have nicknames for all of your contacts?” Derek asks as they switch back phones.

“Friends and family,” Stiles confirms, grinning. “I have personalized ringtones too.”

“I look forward to earning the privilege.”

“Play your cards right, and you just might, big guy.”

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

_The second, third, and fourth dates go just_ as well as the first. Stiles keeps the details under wraps, not wanting to get his hopes up, nor anyone else's, but it turns out Derek has no such reservations. Stiles nearly dies from the onslaught of butterflies when Erica gushes to him about the details of their dates that he knows he never divulged to anyone, and she admits that Derek has been blabbing in his own quiet, shy way. She teases him about how smitten they are for each other and gloats over how she'd been the one to get them together.

Stiles keeps waiting for the shift, for the metal-studded biker boot to drop. For Derek to crush the heart he is stupidly allowing to rest on his sleeve. He waits to be ignored, to be told to shut up, to be pushed around verbally and/or physically. Sometimes he flinches at sudden movements, so tightly strung from his own paranoia, but Derek takes it all in stride. He understands that something had to have happened, and he is willing to wait for the trust Stiles will eventually give.

They spend time together outside of actual dates, and Derek takes Stiles for his first motorcycle ride, and Stiles has to swallow his saliva so he doesn't drool when he sees those powerful thighs straddling that monster bike. Derek gifts him with a sleek black helmet with lightning decals, and Stiles shamelessly clings to Derek's back the whole ride. He is only a little embarrassed when he pops a stiffy from the purr and vibration of the engine between his legs and the chiseled body against his front. Derek is gracious enough not to mention it. Riding the motorcycle with Derek becomes one of his favorite non-date things to do.

Sometimes, rather than go home to binge on Netflix series or clean an already clean apartment, Stiles will go to hang at the Sanctuary in the Preserve until Derek gets off work. Other times, Derek will surprise Stiles at work with food or flowers, despite how awkward and embarrassed the badass-lookalike gets when others observe him doing anything remotely related to PDA. It melts Stiles' heart, and he can't help but kiss his leather-clad Romeo on the cheek and promise to see him later that day after work.

Derek's nickname in his phone starts off as Big Guy, bringing a chuckle to the man's chest, but it quickly changes to Just My Type. The blush on his face is endearing, and his shy, happy smile makes Stiles swoon.

For the seventh official date, Stiles takes Derek for a long weekend to the privately owned beach and beach house his uncle allows him to use for the occasion, a good three hour drive from Beacon Hills. Lying on a blanket on the beach under the night sky, fingers entwined with his boyfriend's, Stiles quietly tells Derek of the worst of his relationships, the ones that made him scream at night from the nightmares, the ones that left him scarred, the ones that had him questioning his worth every day. Derek is quiet and attentive, listening acutely. His thumb rubs soothingly across the back of Stiles' hand, fingers squeezing occasionally, and he offers soft words of comfort whenever Stiles has to pause before moving on.

At the end, Derek rolls over Stiles, blocking his view of the sky, and they share their first mouth kiss. It's everything Stiles imagined it would be and more, and he's breathless by the end, arms curled around Derek's shoulders, fingers buried in his hair, and legs hooked around the backs of Derek's muscular thighs.

Derek tenderly kisses the scar above his eyebrow, and Stiles' eyes drift closed while his fingers map every muscle and ridge he could reach. The gentle breeze and the music of the ocean's ebb and flow is all the atmosphere they need as they bask in touch and soft, languid kissing and shared breath. Stiles drags his short nails over Derek's shoulders, his scalp, through his perfect fucking beard, and Derek groans softly against Stiles' mouth, the sound vibrating through his broad chest and making Stiles' heart skip a beat.

When Stiles yawns into a kiss, Derek rumbles a laugh and wraps the blanket around Stiles in a half-assed burrito before showing off his superior strength that Stiles has praised so often, lifting the lankier man up and carrying him into the beach house while Stiles, blushing, moans and clings tightly with arms and legs. Derek stumbles on the three steps up onto the porch when the smaller male latches his mouth to the the pulse point on his neck, and he whines a little like a wolf as he forces his way inside with considerably less grace than he normally would.

He retaliates later when they fall into bed together by leaving hickeys all over Stiles' collarbones.

They don't have sex that night. Both are too raw and not nearly ready enough for that step, despite their months' long relationship. Derek will admit in the morning that it could take a very long time for him to be ready after the abuse he suffered at the immeasurably cruel hands of his ex-girlfriend Kate Argent, Allison's estranged and recently incarcerated aunt. Instead, they lie in bed tangled in each other's limbs, breathing each other's air, making out until their lips and tongues are sore, and humping and grinding against each other until they climax, still dressed in their clothes.

Derek, ever the gentleman and provider, leaves the bed to retrieve water and a wet cloth so they could hydrate and wipe off, and Stiles digs out their night clothes from the dufflebags so they could sleep comfortably.

Stiles admits that Derek's tattoo—the gorgeous triskele spiral on his back between his shoulder blades—and his easy ability to manhandle Stiles without being overly aggressive or rough, without every breaking a sweat, _does things_ to him. Derek confesses similar feelings in regards to Stiles' oral fixation and his utterly fantastic scalp massages. They giggle and whisper soft praises to one another, kissing intermittently, connecting on a deeper level even without the inclusion of sex. Stiles feels safe snuggled up against Derek, and he falls asleep to the feel of Derek tracing patterns to connect his freckles and moles and pressing kisses to the scars on his back.

After that, it's only natural to introduce Derek officially to Noah, Melissa, and Scott as his boyfriend. Derek does his best to put forth the best impression he can despite his social anxiety, but it ends up not mattering as the Sheriff welcomes him with the most accepting smile and handshake Stiles has ever seen from him before the dinner Stiles makes for the occasion is even served.

“It's obvious just how happy he makes you,” Noah says later, while Derek and Scott volunteer to clean up and do the dishes. “Even with Tod, you didn't smile this much. You look more like yourself before the conga line of assholes. If he can do that for you, of course I'm going to approve of him.”

Stiles doesn't even bother to hide the tears as he hugs Noah tight, so grateful for this man.

Of course, Stiles reciprocates with Derek's family, gladly participating in a group Skype call with both halves that live in New York and Colorado. They clearly think the world of Derek, are not just a little protective of him, and Stiles takes their interrogations all in stride. He finds that he can fling competitive barbs like it's nothing with Uncle Peter, who is immediately taken with him, and argues with the younger sister Cora about memes and Marvel. By the end of the hours-long call, Stiles is in love with the Hales.

Fuck.

_He loves Derek._

Six short glorious months, and he knows he's irrevocably in love with Derek Hale. Once he realizes, it's impossible to hold it back. It's like a bubble of emotion that refuses to be held back, and he practically explodes when the Skype call ends.

“I love you,” he blurts, heart pounding and breath short, eyes wide and desperate as he stares at Derek. His face goes beet red, and he hates himself. Derek had barely hit the button on the laptop to cut the connection! What is _wrong_ with him?

Derek is understandably stunned, speechless and wide-eyed. He stares at Stiles, as if his brain has stopped processing, and Stiles hysterically wonders where Derek's reboot button is located. He doesn't leave Stiles in suspense for long, however. It takes him mere seconds to scoop Stiles up off the couch, and then off the floor, the shorter man's feet dangling as broad hands cup his ass, fingers squeezing possessively, and drags Stiles into a passionate kiss.

“I love you, too, Stiles, so much,” Derek gasps once they break for air, though he switches to raining kisses all over Stiles' face, teasing high-pitched giggles from a very dazed and happy Stiles, who clings tightly to Derek's broad shoulders. “It feels like I've loved you forever, and I can't wait to see what our lives are going to be like together.”

And Stiles can only gasp and cry and agree, happy tears flavoring their many, many kisses thereafter.

Derek's contact nickname changes to Future Husband.

Two years later, Stiles changes it one more time to My Forever.


End file.
